


Grey Skies

by fusrodie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied Relationships, Lyrium Addiction, Mental Breakdown, Minor Character Death, Minor Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rite of Tranquility
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fusrodie/pseuds/fusrodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric has been writing like no tomorrow since the Inquisitor came back from their latest adventures, somewhere in the west. Cassandra thinks Cullen should read it and won’t take no for an answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He had seen it enough times to know what it all meant. He had seen it when the rumors about the Inquisitor and Cassandra spread around Skyhold, and then again when Dorian spent three days walking funny and Bull three days smirking. He had seen it when Blackwall first left the fortress early in the morning and came back with a handful of flowers. Heard it, too: gossip spread through the barracks like wildfire. He normally paid it no mind, too busy with his work to care about the love lives of other members of the Inquisition (although, if he were to be honest, some of it  _did_  spark his curiosity), well aware of how the rumors of love and companionship lifted the spirits and kept morale high. What he did not understand was why the stares and giggles were aimed at  _him_.

Varric was the first. He had just arrived with the Inquisitor from the Western Approach, his trusty notebook tucked under his arm, and the two met while the dwarf climbed the stairs to the main keep. The Commander had greeted him as usual, a nod and a small smile, but Varric stared at him like he was another man entirely. Ever since, whenever Cullen made his way to Josephine's office and the War room, he would catch the rogue glancing every so often, his signature smile plastered on his face - smug, amused.

Then it was Trevelyan, a lot less subtle but just as secretive about the reasons - not that Cullen had the courage to ask. He would have, had he felt the Inquisitor was uncomfortable or worried; they were long past awkward conversations and avoidance of unpleasant topics, and Cullen had began to consider the noble a friend - one he kept an arm's length away, like most others, but a friend nonetheless. Yet he knew better than to poke when the man looked so  _mischievous_ , and for a while he worried Trevelyan and Sera had prepared yet another prank for him. He checked his desk twice that day, but found nothing.

Finally, it was Cassandra. She was sitting at her usual spot (or rather, her and Trevelyan's usual spot) in the armory, her face hidden by the book she was so busy devouring. The sound of metal being shaped by determined strikes did not seem to bother her, much less his boots against the floor, and only when he had reached the very last step and the wood protested under his weight did she acknowledge his presence. He was about to apologize for startling her, when the Seeker snapped the book shut and clutched it to her chest, quickly blurting out his title and name, walking away from the railing she had been leaning against and towards the window. Cullen knew about her interest for romance novels, and never once did he breathe a word about it. Indeed, the two had even joked about it on occasion - a strange, dry and humorless kind of humor, Trevelyan later remarked. They had become close over time, open about their pasts, their problems, and Cullen did not understand why Cassandra would think of hiding something like that from him.

She refused to face him as she spoke, and Cullen thought he heard her voice cracking ever so slightly, her shoulders rising as she inhaled deeply. His response was full of careful words - he did not wish to make her embarrassed or, Marker forbid, angry. He was caught off guard when she turned around and there it was, that look again. Not quite the same as Varric's or the Inquisitor's, he supposed. Cassandra did not possess the amount of sarcasm required, no; her gaze was much softer, brighter, a small smile forming on her lips. Though his voice was calm and even, there was an undertone of frustration he could scarcely control. Something was amiss, and Cullen Rutherford hated being out of the loop.

Cullen knew malice, sarcasm and mockery when he saw it, usually accompanied by grins and chuckles, some with  _desire_ , and those seemed to pierce through him and made him nauseous. The memories of the Orlesian Ball were nothing short of disgusting, leaving him right between anger and disdain. Hers was different, however. When Cassandra looked at him, flush on her cheeks and eyes sparkling, what he saw was almost sublime, like the Seeker was on the brink of tears. He knew of her passion for books, especially the ones written by a certain rogue, but had never thought the dwarf capable of writing something so moving. Even then it would not explain why Cassandra seemed so on edge, disbelief in her voice when he admitted curiosity but also ignorance, her tone making it clear that even though he did not, he  _should_  know.

It came as no surprise when she admitted she had been reading one of Varric's romances, but he did not expect her to place her copy on his hands when he asked, more out of politeness than interest, what it was about. He was not one for novels, he explained quickly, handing the manuscript back, yet Cassandra never took the offer. If the woman felt so touched by the writing that she saw fit to trust him with her very own, signed and customized copy of it, it had to be important.

Perhaps it held knowledge, information Varric had previously refused to part with, between the lines? If so, Leliana would be better suited for the task. If it truly was a romantic story, wouldn't Josephine like it better? The Antivan had a loving relationship with words and romance, while he knew nothing of it. He let his fingers slide over the cover, noting it didn't look at all special - it was plain, a dark shade of red, no titles or raunchy pictures of the  _dashing_  author. By the time he had finished analyzing it, Cassandra had left, marching towards her favorite training dummy like their conversation never happened. For the remainder of the day he thought about the blasted book, sitting atop his desk amidst assorted notes. The Inquisitor visited his office at some point, but seemed far more interested in his reports than talking about why he was smiling so openly at the Commander, his words amiable, stripped of the irony he seemed to appreciate so much. This was unusual, to say the least. Cullen had heard it enough times to know that tone of voice was reserved to those he held close, such as Cassandra or Sera. Although not unpleasant, the notion made him uneasy.

He sat with Dorian in the gardens later that day, taking a break from work to play a game of chess, and even the Tevinter was quiet, planning his moves thoroughly and, for once, not caring about cheating his way to victory. A surprised sound left his throat when Cullen broke the silence by asking about the Inquisitor's latest adventures in the west, but the mage soon regained his composure.  _Hot, dusty and bland_ , and Dorian rolled his eyes as he said it, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, and failing miserably. Nothing interesting? No Grey Warden artifacts? No, nothing noteworthy, perhaps an elven rune or two, Cole's commentary would make for an excellent book. Other than that? Sand and insufferable heat for miles and miles. Dorian's face contorted in a frown when the commander asked if that was what Varric's new book was about, the spirit's seemingly disjointed comments about hurt and other people's pasts? Had Cole said something about him? It would not be the first time, but no one had ever thought of comprising his thoughts on print before - likely because that would be unethical and rude. Dorian made a snide remark about Cullen's sudden interest in literature, waved his hand to dismiss his second question, and proceeded to distract them both with playful comments about his Cassandra-esque hobby. He offered his copy of Swords & Shields, explaining he had intended to use it as kindling in the near future, and a new owner seemed like a better alternative. Cullen laughed as Dorian made his move, and for the first time since the two had started playing together, Dorian of House Pavus had secured a victory over the Commander of Forces. He would never hear the end of it.

By the time he went back to his quarters, most of Skyhold's inhabitants had done the same. A pile of neatly stacked papers waited for him, and he planned on reading them tomorrow. If today hadn't been so... Awkward, he would have done so right away, the sacrifice of a few hours of sleep meaning more time to do other work the next day. Varric Tethras' latest piece rested on his desk, however, and it had managed to make Trevelyan look at him fondly, Dorian shut his mouth, and bring Cassandra to tears. Grabbing the volume, he blew out the candles and climbed the ladder, the sight of his bed not always a welcome one.

Minutes later he had divested of his armor and changed into more comfortable attire, and now sat in silence, back resting against the headboard, blankets pulled up to his waist, the oh-so-mysterious book on his lap. Though his Templar education required it, Cullen was never one for reading, specially works of fiction. There was no place in his life for fantasies and unachievable dreams. Most of what was written he had experienced at some point, anyway. Battlefields, swords clashing, heart hammering against his chest and sweat dripping down his forehead - none of it was new, and he did not need a reminder of all the death and pain he had experienced. The nightmares and hallucinations and thoughts he couldn't put aside were more than enough. Reading about adventures as a youth made him yearn for it, things he could never have, and it was better to keep such idiocies as far away as possible. He remembered feeling nothing but dread when opening a book, but tonight was singular. The first page had Varric's signature splayed across it, the second read that this was not a first draft but compiled notes. The third had a chunk of text in a handwriting he did not recognize.

_"You ask me if I would change it if I could go back, erase all the blood and pain. For the longest time, I dreamed of it, but now... I would not undo it. I have learned to safeguard the things that are worth keeping - I will not let my good memories be soiled. Much light has come out of my darkness._

_(I assure you, Lady Pentaghast, the honor is all mine)"_

 

* * *

 

 

He had read Varric's Tale of the Champion, and this felt nothing like it. It made sense, he supposed - Cassandra Pentaghast would never cry over Hawke's bravado and the perverted banter between their companions, after all. Then he thought he would be uncomfortable, the words "smutty literature" ever present in the back of his mind, and he braced for graphic, distasteful portrayals of sweaty bodies and couples entwining limbs, but even that never came. Instead he found himself reading through the adventures of an unnamed heroine, whose characteristics were purposely kept a secret,  _"this humble storyteller would very much prefer that his readers unravel this mystery by themselves"._

 

> _Beside her, Ser Cuddles gripped his sword tighter as they advanced through the spider-infested cave. They had never been the kind to look for adventure, too afraid of reprimands and side-eyed glances, but this time adventure had found them, and the two were happy to answer the call. At least at first, when they were safe and thought themselves ready. Not now, definitely not now, knee-deep in trouble and with nothing but an oil lantern, their weapons and each other. They could do it, she reassured herself, and quickly looked at her companion - Maker, she shouldn't have. She couldn't take her eyes off of him sometimes._

Cullen was not proud of the childish laughter that escaped his lips when he finished the first chapter. A  _dragon_ , the two had found a dragon and it's nest deep into the cave, and the heroine had been so excited she tripped and set part of Ser Cuddles' armor on fire. Their ambush was all but ruined then, as the monster raised its head to stare them down, and there was a moment of hesitation before the two turned tail and ran as fast as they could towards the exit. They had gotten what they wanted, however, a rusty old key said to open every door. The two sealed the entrance to the cave, well, Ser Cuddles did, as the woman turned over the artifact in her hands. He complained, but she would not hear it, saying it was his role as the party's designated warrior.

It was silly and badly written, if he were to give his honest opinion. The first part felt like it was made for children, full of impossibilities and comedic moments, and though slightly insulting and somewhat patronizing, it was refreshing to get so lost in youthful adventures. A reprieve he had not granted himself in many years, busy with work and... He could not really remember doing anything but his duties. One cannot miss what they have never known, and the running joke around Skyhold was that Cullen Rutherford did not know the meaning of "fun".

The heroine was not a typical one, brave and beautiful, willing to sacrifice herself for the good of others. Quite the contrary, in fact. She was described as average, average in everything from her head to her toes, passing through personality, accomplishments and skills.  _Mediocre_ , was the best word to describe her, yet Cullen felt a sense of endearment as he read about all the trouble she could get herself into. Burning her fingers when  _boiling water_ , hitting her head against bookshelves, making a fool out of herself in front of Chantry sisters, she had done it all, moody and sarcastic and oddly entertaining for a man almost reaching thirty.

Her friend was a lot less energetic. Ser Cuddles was a tall man, always grumpy and methodical, perfect hair and perfect clothes. The only time he allowed himself to smile was when she passed by, or talked to him, or smiled or said something inappropriate - which was all the time. She would always drag him along and he would always say yes, though not without some amount of complaining and the promise that it would never happen again. Cullen found himself wishing the two to be together for some reason, Dorian's mockery echoing in his mind as he suddenly became aware this was exactly what Cassandra would do. He told himself such was the author's intention, and he could not help it.

The book took a drastic turn at some point in the middle.

 

* * *

  

> _She can't take her eyes off of him sometimes. He is not the most handsome, the most talented or intelligent - he simply_ is _, and that is enough. Her friends mock them both, she is in love and he is awkward, but it matters very little when she is busy trying to memorize the way his lips curve when he smiles, so she can picture it behind her eyelids. There is no grace to his movements - far too young for that, far too tall, all knees and elbows under the plate -, and she is no noble lady either, hair wild and high pitched laughter. They mock them both because_ he _is in love and_ she _is awkward, and perhaps they are a perfect couple after all. One that could never be._
> 
> _She holds her hands together and prays to the Maker sometimes. Prays that one day it won't matter who they are, what they are, and she will hold_ his _hand and kiss his lips and there will be so much love trapped inside her heart she thinks it will stop beating. Prays that one day she will be able to say all the things that go through her mind when she sees him, that one day she will whisper honeyed words in his ear and trace them on his skin with the tips of her fingers. Prays that one day he will hold her close and say he_ loves _her, and she will say it back, and cry as she does, because she has never been so sure in her entire life._
> 
> _(The Maker never hears, and the day never comes.)_
> 
> _They spend quiet nights together in the library sometimes. She cannot sleep and he lets her stay, promises he won't tell, and he never does. They play chess together when no one is looking, and he always lets her win; she promises the day will come when he won't need to. (It never does.) She reads bad romances out loud, complete with a dramatic performance, and he laughs behind the gauntleted hand. When they are alone she reads poetry, and likes to think he smiles when she notices his shoulders moving as he sighs. He teaches her about arms and armor, points at it, lets her touch, breastplate, pauldron, rerebrace, vambrace, gauntlet, and she teaches him all she knows, elfroot, embrium, witherstalk, tucks a flower behind his ear and laughs at how pretty he looks._
> 
> _She hides from him sometimes, when she is hurting and there is nothing he can do. She misses home, mother and father (did she have siblings?), and cries because she will never see them again. She misses the bedtime stories and goodnight kisses, the bruised knees and puffy cheeks, but sometimes she doesn't remember, can't tell apart memory and dream. She prays that one day she will not have to dream anymore, she will have no need for memories, because it will be true, it will be_ present _, mother, father, and_ their _children, her eyes and his curls. He sings pretty songs when he thinks no one can hear, and she hides to listen to him when she needs the comfort._

The tale goes on, adventures he never knew of, nooks and crannies of a past he had forgotten, and it all feels familiar, just enough to warm his heart and ward off his terrors, realization dawns and now he  _knows_ , his heart is racing and it's too loud to hear. His fingers flex around the cover and he thinks perhaps he should stop, stop before the things he buried came back to haunt him, throw the book away and let it fall and hopefully dismantle itself when it hits the ground. But he can't, and instead grips the edges and brings it closer, because he  _remembers_ , and for once his mind is free of demons and it feels like the sun is shining.

 

> _When her friends are taken away from her, he is all she has. And he performs remarkably well: his sense of humor is different and his jokes are bad, but he blushes when she laughs, and she never passes the opportunity to see his cheeks tinted pink and the small smile grow on his lips. They are so close sometimes she does not know where one ends and the other begins, and she knows one day it will be too much - the pain and bitterness or the love and longing -, but letting go is impossible._
> 
> _She dreams they will run away together sometimes. Dreams he will come and sweep her off her feet and carry her in his arms, somewhere far away where they will never be found, and she won't mind it if he snores or his breath smells bad in the morn, won't mind sharing her food because there is not enough or keeping close when winter comes. She won't mind the hardships if it means they are together, but she knows it will never happen, because he is good and honest and dutiful and that is what she loves about him._
> 
> _And when he is taken away from her, she has nothing, and_ it feels _like nothing, she tells herself she cannot cry but does not know what else to do. She leaves behind heart and soul when she puts what little she has inside her pack and sneaks out in the middle of the night, without so much as a warning or a goodbye._
> 
> _She has to remind herself they will never see each other again. She is far away and life has started anew, there are others holding the shield where he should be. She no longer remembers the rules for chess and someone teaches her Wicked Grace instead; she has been lying for so long, pretending, controlling, that it comes easy, and she wins coins, friends and smallclothes. The laughter and the ale help her forget. She still remembers her lessons (pommel, grip, guard), but it is someone else who holds her, a hand lingering on her hip as they show her how to swing, a warm, soft body pressed against hers as they help her pull the bowstring. For many months she remembers, and every night she cries, until she is too tired to fight and buries the memory with all the bodies the war left behind._

Cullen knows his hands are shaking and is vaguely aware of the dull ache in his head, but he cannot bring himself to care.

None of it is written as he remembers it, not the battle, nor the moment they parted. His memories of that time are hazy - hazy and  _blue_ , he notes -, too painful to be brought to light at will, choosing to surface during the most delicate moments of his life, when he is questioning, faltering,  _I should be taking it_ , and maybe it won't hurt as much. He is too stunned to do anything other than keep his eyes open and read, certain that this has a different ending, one that will mend his broken heart. Cullen curses under his breath, wrinkles the edges of the paper as his grip tightens. The book is cruel and seems oblivious to his pleads.

 

* * *

 

Her past is all but forgotten in later chapters. She is no longer the fresh-faced, inexperienced young girl with an unrequited first love, but a woman grown, curves and wicked smiles. These are new times, with new problems. Adventure finds her, strangers find their way into her life and heart, and she loves it, all of it, the dust from the road and warmth from the campfire. She watches as love blossoms and refuses to become bitter. Does not welcome it, either. Her heart is safe behind an impenetrable fortress to which only a select few have the key, and even those who have known her for a long time do not dare to traipse into forbidden land, a place under lock and key that she never intends to open. She saves the world a couple of times, ancient Tevinter Magisters, dragons, cultists plotting against Kings and Queens, and the story flows easily and Cullen allows himself to be dragged along.

 

> _She hears rumors about Ser Cuddles in her travels. He likely hates her - as he should, so much easier to forget -, but has otherwise moved on: a hero, they call him, a good man, like she always knew him to be. His friends speak fondly of him, and she cannot help but ask if he is still grouchy, hiding her curiosity behind a smile. There are so many things she wants to ask! Is he married? Is his wife pretty? What about his children? Does he sing pretty songs to them before bed? She wonders if he still plays chess, or indulges in his passion for lemon cakes._
> 
> _Her eyes fill with tears when she realizes they soon will meet once more. This time it does not matter who they are or what they have done - but it has been too long and it hurts, because she does not love him anymore. How could she? She can barely remember his face, or the timbre of his voice. She cannot picture the sweet young man who stuttered and stumbled, because she knows he no longer exists, and whoever he has become is a mystery to her, a stranger._
> 
> _But he would never be one, would he? Try as she might, she could never erase him completely, would never discard her best memories, the ones she kept to help shape her future self. Had he done the same? Did he cherish those moments as she did? Did he think of her fondly, if at all? Or had he chosen to step over everything, leave it behind alongside his broken past? She cannot blame him if he did - those were her intentions from the start. He did not deserve to be tied down by her or the memory of her; she simply wanted him to be happy, and it was clear there would be no place for her in his joy.  
>  She sighs, fidgets with the buttons of her blouse, a blush on her cheeks when they tell her he is a loner, has always been. A friend would do him good, they say, and she wonders if she could be that friend. _

Dawn has already come by the time Cullen allows himself to take his eyes off the pages. He closed the book with more force than needed, unable to decide whether it was anger he felt or something else entirely. His heart is beating fast as he jumps out of bed and throws his coat over his shoulders and pulls on his boots, unsure of how to proceed, but determined to coax whatever information he could from Varric. He walks quickly out of his office and into Solas' study, the library too quiet at this time of the day, and he notes how empty the halls feel without the posh nobles, wishing it could be like this at all times.

He had begun to rethink his plans by the time he had reached to door that led to the inner circle's private quarters, but it was too late to turn back. A flash of blond hair caught his eye and he marched towards the end of the hall, book tucked under his arm and a scowl on his face. He put his foot between the wood and the frame when Varric pushed the door to close it, forcing the other man to peek at whatever kept it open. The rogue didn't seem surprised, and promptly stood aside to let the commander in.

Now that he was here, Cullen did not know what to do. He wanted to yell, grab the dwarf by the collar and  _demand_  answers, but he choked on his own words, and after a few seconds of pure desperation and amusement from Varric's part, he managed to blurt out:

"Please tell me you have written more."

Varric's grin was only the biggest he had ever seen.

"Ah, I see Cassandra has lent you her copy of _Grey Skies_. How do you like it? Personally, I think it's a little gloomy," he offered Cullen a tankard filled with what seemed to be ale, and set it down on the table when he refused. "And I'm afraid you'll have to wait for a while until the next part comes out. That isn't even the first draft, Cassandra just kept asking to see my notes and the Inquisitor... Convinced me to hand them over." The dwarf rolled his eyes as he spoke, and motioned for Cullen to take a seat.

"You can't leave it like this," the commander held the book within Varric's field of vision. "You can't!"

"I am sorry, Curly, I really am," the rogue held both hands in the air in surrender. "I expect we will all be busy for the next few weeks, preparing for the arrival of such an important hero..." Varric rose to his feet, pushing Cullen towards the door. "And as I always say, a good story you don't really write. It was always there: you just uncover it. Unfortunately, the ending for this one has not written itself yet" were the dwarf's last words before he winked at Cullen and shut the door to his chambers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. The chapter is shorter than the first, I apologize, but I hope you like it!

The initial shock caused by the blasted book lasted a whole day. After Varric had closed the door on him, he was left agape for a few minutes, clutching the manuscript to his chest like Cassandra had done, looking but not really _seeing_ , trying to process the information he had been given. The story was not just a story, it was real, they _would_ meet again, and he was not ready, he likely would never be. What would he do when he saw her? What if he was struck dumb by the sight of her? The _Hero of Ferelden,_ _vanquisher of the Fifth Blight, Commander of the Grey Wardens, Arlessa of Amaranthine._ He would make a fool out of himself, of that he was sure. He would have to rehearse his greeting and his apology, yes, apology, because the words he spat at the tower so many years ago still lingered in his thoughts, pointing a blaming finger - unworthy, cruel. He gave up shortly after, when a servant asked if he was alright or she should call the Inquisitor, better yet, maybe a healer? He was _fine_ , nothing wrong, nothing at all, and he put on his best commanding tone, trying and failing to contain the shade of pink that had crept up to his cheeks. But the woman pressed, said he looked feverish, paler than usual and red like he had seen a naked Qunari. (Cullen pretended not to notice when the elf blushed and sighed, repeating _naked Qunari_ with a smile on her face.)

He marched back to his quarters as quickly as his legs could carry him, praying to the Maker nobody had seen the Commander of Forces running across the bridge that connected his tower to the library wearing breeches and a worn out tunic. Cullen let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding when the door shut behind him, clutching Cassandra's copy of _Grey Skies_ like a lifeline. It came to be one, he admitted a few days later, after the Seeker had asked him, first over breakfast, then a second time that same day, if he had liked it, and he lied, saying he had not had the time to finish reading it. He could scarcely believe the look on her face, worry and curiosity mixed together as she urged him to take care of his health, told him he should take a few hours for himself, pointed at the dark circles under his eyes as evidence of his over-working ways. He managed to be gracious enough to thank her thoughtfulness, but could not ignore Varric's look from the other side of the table, all too aware the dwarf could rat him out right then and there. It came as a surprise when no witty words left his mouth, and he instead busied himself sipping his tea, holding the cup with one hand while the other held a quill and he scratched over the parchment, absorbed in his writing.

The first day is difficult; he drags himself along the halls and forces his eyes to stay open as he reads over report after report, chastising himself for having stayed up all night, but refusing to think about the matter any further. He does his best to keep his distance from the thoughts of her, from his own feelings and, more importantly, from hers, recorded in the manuscript in such a clear, honest manner. The sleepless night makes his symptoms worse, fingertips numb, a throbbing pain that seems to start behind his eyes and spreads until it becomes unbearable to even lift his head. He counts himself lucky for his dim lit office, sconces burning somewhere behind him and a lone candle sitting on top of his desk, the room just bright enough to allow him to see. He curses the light coming from the open door when his runner walks in, hides his face on his hands when the world is blurry and he cannot move. The pain is gone as soon as it comes, and though part of him wants to thank the Maker for small miracles, he knows better, knows the battle is not over - perhaps it will never truly be.

There is a feeling of uneasiness resting in the pit of his stomach; he prepares himself for the next wave as best he can, but is the first to admit whatever his thoughts, they amounted to nothing. He knew precious little about self care, and his pride kept him from asking for help. As a Templar, he did not need to worry: lyrium would always be available, and there would be no nightmares, no pain, no thirst. He felt strong when the blue slid into his mouth, powerful like no other. Cullen is used to _protecting_ , raising his shield, counterattacking. But he is a Templar no more. He is alone, no longer under supervision, his responsibilities have doubled and he _cannot_ fail. There is no time to sit and wait until his pains are gone, and he is not about to bother the few friends he has with such menial topics. As long as he can lead, as long as he is sane, in control, he will endure.

But his mind is in shambles, and he tells Cassandra as much. Her faith in his leadership doubles his concerns and sees him closed off to the rest of the world. The Inquisition depends on him, and that is all he should care about. He stumbles towards the bed that night, breastplate and coat discarded quickly just before his body hits the mattress. There are no dreams, only a sense of emptiness that perches on him the whole day after.

But it is the fourth day that starts the change, and what it brings is denial. Cullen watches closely for any... Suspicious activity within the ranks. Varric doesn't mention the Hero's arrival again. Reports are delivered, soldiers walk to and fro, Blackwall puts the newest recruits through the drills, the kitchen staff snickers or sighs when the Bull passes by. Trevelyan is a stuttering mess when Cassandra smiles, Solas works on his paintings in silence and Dorian scribbles and sketches. Cole lurks, but that seems to be his favorite pastime. Skyhold is untouched and its inhabitants act like nothing out of the ordinary has happened - and he reckons that is how it should be. Tethras' stories tend to cause quite the stir once they made the rounds, but if Cullen has his say in it, none of the gossiping is going to happen this time. He has the only copy of the dwarf's newest novel, the one about a Fereldan heroine and her troubled life. Though the narrative is subtle and there is no clear depiction of mages and Templars (Ser Cuddles later becomes _Warden_ Cuddles, while she fades into obscurity), he fears some might pick up the hints, as he has. There is always the risk of one believing some of it true, put the pieces together and spread the rumor that, in his latest adventures, the Inquisitor met none other than the Hero of Ferelden, who would come to visit the great fortress that now serves as the Inquisition's base. The results can be disastrous, he knows this. Some of his soldiers are Ferelden, remember the Blight, the fighting, the dying, and remember the woman that put down the Archdemon; even those that are not know of her feats. Such an illustrious visitor would not simply cause a stir - Skyhold would _stop_. Josephine would organize events that would last for days, nobles might come and crowd the halls, refugees would feel either ecstatic or terrified. Yet there are no rumors, no whispers.

He is torn between returning the book to its rightful owner and lying to Cassandra regarding its whereabouts. It was not fair to keep the novel hostage, not when the Seeker seemed so invested in it. At the same time, it was not fair to spread such lies, to provoke him so openly.

By the time night comes he has already shoved the book into a drawer, convinced the dwarf was lying, toying with him for the sake of his stories. He considers burning the volume in an act of juvenile revenge, but Cassandra's puffy eyes and pitiful expression flash in his mind and Cullen cannot bring himself to do it. The whole situation makes his blood boil. The Hero of Ferelden would never agree to this madness, telling the story of their unrequited love, knowing Tethras would profit from this, knowing others would read, knowing _Cullen_ would know. No; she is far away, in some secret, personal mission, as Leliana has made it clear. She hates him for the things he said, hates him for the man he has become. The story, the Seeker's tears, the Inquisitor's sudden mellowing, Dorian's careful avoidance of the topic, it is all a plot, a well-spun tale, written to prod and hurt him. The demon, Cole, must be the one responsible, _how deep he must have sifted through his thoughts,_ and the memory gives him pause.

For what seems like the longest time, Cullen is frozen, numb. He wants to be angry, wants to feel the urge to get up and walk to the keep, possibly knee the dwarf in the gut for his treacherous words, but he has never been good at lying, specially to himself. Cassandra would not bother him over a simple romance. Trevelyan would not touch his shoulder affectionately out of the clear blue. And Dorian would not flinch at the words _Grey Warden_ and oh-so-expertly divert the subject to something more appealing (namely, himself) if nothing out of the ordinary had happened back west. Varric had seen the Templar, had seen Kirkwall, has witnessed its troubles firsthand. And he now sees the man the Chantry slowly but surely loses control over, the life the Circles have shaped. Tethras may be a professional liar, but he is far from insensible.

Cullen fills a mug with wine and downs it in what seems to be one fluid motion. Drinking makes his headaches worse, he knows it, even more so after a stressful day. But he needs the sudden rush, shakes his head and welcomes the painful tug. He is awake and his mind is clear, but seems empty. Fists clench and relax, his breathing is steady, his heartbeat anything but.

Try as he might to deny it, he knows it is true, knows she cared, perhaps still does. Knows she _loved_ him, and that feeling is gone, and there is so much to consider he is unsure of where to start.

He pulls the drawer open without a care in the world, ignores the scattered vellum that flies to his office's floor when he grabs the book and places it on the desk. She _loved_ him, he says once, though he can barely recognize the tone of his voice. There is a tenderness in it he had not heard in many years, and the warmth in his chest blooms like never before. He wonders if there would be enough time to reread the first part and still get a decent amount of sleep. He needs to relive it, needs to see the signs again and convince himself this is no misunderstanding. The opening paragraph is written in her handwriting. Cuddles, the blonde, tall and clumsy warrior is a younger version of himself. The graceless girl turned stunning woman and renowned hero is his first, his only sweetheart. He will skip the sad parts, focus on their fictional adventures together.

Cullen considers himself lucky; he knows going through her memories and feelings once again will force him to skim through his own, knows the pain it will bring, and does not trust himself to be strong enough to bear it. But it is clear Varric did not speak the truth; the Inquisitor has made no move to announce the Hero's arrival, none of his companions seemed aware of the rumor, and no gossip from the barracks had reached his ears. They will not meet, and he is free to mourn and smile to his heart's content, in the privacy of his room, until he has come to terms with it all and feels ready to see her once more. Maybe then he will ask Leliana, consult the Nightingale on the best way to reach her. A letter may be too formal: Cullen is not good with words, knows he cannot convey a heartfelt apology using quill and paper. He wishes to see her, scared as he may be with the idea, hopes his actions, the look in his eyes, will help tell her what he feels.

His unread lists and documents are placed second in priority for the rest of the night. Cullen organizes the paperwork, removes and polishes his armor until he cannot find a speck of dust, places his sword on a nearby weapon rack. He will treat himself tonight, as best as he knows how. He brings the book and a bottle of wine to his chambers, rubs away the knots on his shoulders.

The sky above is soothing and the stars look pretty, he muses, staring up through the hole in his roof, and he wonders if they are always like this, and he has never given their beauty any importance. His mother used to tell him love would make his world shine that much brighter, yet he knows it is not love he feels. He knew what love feels like, still remembers some of it. His was passive, watching but never touching, caring in silence, rooting for her success, boasting about her feats in a quiet voice amidst his fellow recruits. Love saw him feverish at times, love saw him whimpering, and it was not love that destroyed him in the end. It faded with time, caught in the tide of his hatred, not dead but forgotten.

Cullen does an outstanding job of ignoring the bad parts until the world comes falling down on top of him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I apologize, it's not as long as I had hoped. Like I said, I hadn't planned on writing more after the first chapter (that I intended to break into smaller ones when I started writing), and now I have so many ideas it can be hard to organize them the way I want it. This is the first time I write a multi-chapter fic, so I hope I don't disappoint!  
> Also, I have no clue on how to write fluff. Do tell me if there is something fluffy in this so I can be under the illusion I'm doing it right.
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


	3. Chapter 3

 

> __"I love you," is the first thing she hears. "I love you," he repeats, and the words seem to float in the air around them, hands holding on to wherever they can find, the closeness not nearly enough to satisfy their need for one another. The kisses come right after, breathy and loud, and the two forget about the world, lost in each other._ _
> 
> _Her sword comes to rest once more against her hip, and she congratulates herself on another job well done. The young woman calls out as she takes her leave, certain that staying would only serve to give her a heavy heart. Her smile is true and her eyes are wet when she turns around towards them, their faces the picture of happiness. A small trinket is placed in her hands, but it matters very little what it is or how much it is worth. There is no need to express their thankfulness any more, but they do so anyway: tears and quick prayers, the promise their firstborn will be named after her. She nods and smiles, but stays quiet - opening her mouth would mean letting out a strangled cry, for she has nothing worth saying._
> 
> _She fiddles with the amulet that night, sitting cross-legged in front of the small fire. The dog slumbers peacefully beside her, drooling and snoring like a drunken dwarf, but the camp is otherwise quiet. It is a simple piece she holds, a silver locket decorated with a single garnet. A brief message carved into the metal has faded long ago, the cold surface soft under her thumb, like it has been caressed far too many times. It brings memories she cares little about; a piece like this one used to adorn her neck, silver carvings and a bright blue gem. It was passed down by her mother long ago, yet it never felt like the amulet truly belonged to her. An echo seems to whisper it did not belong to her mother, either. She had given it away to someone she cared about, and how it came to be in her hands a second time shall remain a mystery. It only mattered when she finally gave it away. There was no time to stand on ceremony, to explain what it was, the meaning it carried. She never came to see him wearing it, does not know if he ever did, but hopes it reminded him of her, that those memories brought him happiness. But she knew better._
> 
> _She tucks it into her pocket, her decision made. Her plans will be put aside and tomorrow she will return it, walk back to the small village and it's rustic charm. She will find the young couple thought to be separated forever and give it to the girl with the calloused hands. She will tell them to keep it, pass it down to the little one they will bring into this world, for they will be far more deserving than the wanderer with the empty heart._
> 
> _She wonders if she still has any love to give, after all she has seen and done. Such things she never gives much thought to, too busy trekking from one town to the next, killing beast after beast, drinking bottle after bottle. And now she knows why, recognizes the tightness in her chest, curses her idle thoughts._
> 
> _The words have never left her mouth. The treacherous ones, the ones she swallowed for so many years. She has never said_ I love you _, and reckons she never will. She tries murmuring it once, twice, only to give herself the satisfaction of hearing them in her own voice. But no one is around to hear them, and the winds carry her hollow words. A part of her beams in foolish hope that they will reach him, somehow, but the wish is gone just as quickly. She does not, and promised long ago she would never tell him lies._
> 
> I loved you _, she whispers, and this time it is true. She hopes he knows it somewhere in his heart._

Cullen hears the doorknob turn before the scout announces her presence. Wood scratches stone, iron hinges creaking as she pushes the door open. The noise startles him, breaks his concentration, his body jolts and the strength is gone from his fingers. The book hits the tip of his nose with more force than he imagined possible. There is a second of silence, a heavy click, a deep breath as the soldier starts reading her note. It is the first of at least half a dozen, if her defeated tone of voice is any indication. The Bull's Chargers were successful in yet another mission in the Storm Coast. Rylen reports improvements in Griffon Wing Keep since the Inquisitor's last visit. The Hinterlands are stable and Vale awaits further orders. It all comes out in a single breath, and silence creeps on right after, boots shuffling against the floor and coming to a halt. He can practically hear her frown, pictures her craning neck and nervous stance. His runner barges into his office every day at the same time, with an armful of paper and messages from the other advisors. She reads them aloud as he signs forms and goes over lists, always says her piece without a stutter before leaving him to his duties. This is the first time Commander Cullen isn't waiting for her messages, prim and proper behind his desk. She asks after him once, and then again a little louder when there is no response, but cuts her sentence short halfway through when the idea that her commanding officer could be  _asleep_  seems to cross her mind. Somewhere down the stairs, he hears the ruffling of paper and a snicker as the scout tiptoes her way out.

He knows he should have given her a sign, an angry bark, a polite  _good morning,_ anything to let her know he was awake and well. Even as a child, he had been an early riser, too much energy in his bones, not enough hours in a day to do the things that needed doing. It became a necessity as a young man, when his education and training put him in a tight schedule, and not once did he complain about classes in the morning or pleaded for five more minutes. Kirkwall's Knight-Captain had never been late, and the Commander of Forces never slept more than strictly necessary. Cullen Rutherford had always been a creature of habit - the soldiers knew, the Inquisitor knew, and more importantly, Cassandra Pentaghast knew. The last thing he needed was the Seeker stomping into his office, worried his health had worsened and he could not make it out of bed. But there would be no flush on his cheeks if it were true. He feels fine - lately his mornings have been the best he's had in years -,  _lazy_  even, too busy staring at the clear, blue sky through the hole in his roof, rubbing away the pain but also smiling like an idiot, a certain book laying flat against his chest and his hand resting on top of it.

A groan escapes Cullen's lips when he stretches his arms and rolls his shoulders, feet touching the wooden floor as he sits on the edge of the bed. He cannot remember the last time he struggled to abandon his pillow and face the day.

He heads straight to the washbasin and the small mirror, just a few steps away. The splash of cold water helps with the blushing and the puffiness under his eyes, brings back a sliver of normalness to his usually composed features. His unruly curls are also evidence of a night well spent; his night terrors often made him wake up drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck. He dresses methodically, practiced fingers make quick work of laces and metal pieces, and the weight of the breastplate feels like comfort.

The day starts to feel like any other as soon as his armor is in place and his hair cooperates.  A solitary note sits on top of his desk, a bit of ink smudged across the paper. Cullen cannot help but feel bad for it; he knows the scout had written it in a hurry so she could deliver it to him on time. He reads it as he circles around the desk to take his seat; the Inquisitor requested a meeting later in the morning, but had not given any more details.

His second visitor comes by a few minutes later, a boy no older than eighteen, fiery hair and freckles covering a good portion of his cheeks. He is busy balancing a silver tray, tongue sticking out in concentration as he nudges the door open with his foot. Cullen stands up, offers to take the plate off his hands, but the boy refuses, as if carrying the food all the way from the kitchen to his office was the biggest challenge he had ever faced. He works quietly, positioning the silverware in front of him as per Josephine's standards; she had instructed the staff on proper placement, Orlesian etiquette, yet not many cared to put that knowledge to use unless dealing with nobility.

“Do you require anything else, sir?” the boy stands by the door like a soldier would, excellent posture and hands behind his back. “I mean, C-commander!” he stutters and the attitude is gone. Cullen cannot help but chuckle at this, sees a bit of himself in the boy’s awkwardness.

“No, I do not. I will make sure Josephine hears about how seriously you take your duties, sir...?”

“Leonard, Commander!” the tension is gone from his shoulders as he answers, hands coming forward to straighten the fabric of his shirt. “Mother always said my hair looks like a lion’s mane,” a proud, crooked smile dances on the boy’s lips as he says it.

Cullen thanks him, and soon Leonard is on his way. Though he knew most of the staff, he had never seen the boy before; at first glance, he would not have him pegged for kitchen work, too-long limbs and very Ferelden features – and the cook was infamous for being strict and picky with her helpers. The Orlesian woman was kind enough to have a member of the staff take his meals to his office, so he would not have to suffer the noisy mess hall; most days it would be a marcher woman named Isobel, at least fifteen years older than him, graying hair and wrinkles around her eyes, who enjoyed nagging at him incessantly over how tired he looks and how little he eats. It amused more than annoyed him, and he has grown fond of her, the maternal attitude so different from his mother’s, but endearing all the same.

He leaves for the War Room shortly after breakfast, when he can hear Bull’s bellowing outside. It is much too early and he is well aware, but his office feels cramped and he cannot stand still when the need to tangle himself in his bed sheets is so strong. Idle hands would lead him to idle thoughts, and idle thoughts would make him blush, sigh, giggle like a maiden when there was so much work to do. Cullen steps out on the battlements, greets the misfit band of soldiers pouring over their orders between his tower and the next. He strides down the stairs and across the courtyard, walks the path between the makeshift accommodations of refugees and pilgrims - and it feels  _right_ , somehow, to know their safety is partly his doing. The Inquisition is his chance to  _do_  instead of  _watch_ , brings the opportunity to right the wrongs, take responsibility for his actions rather than bearing the consequences stemming from the decisions of another. And he is giving it all he has left, blood and tears, mind and heart.

Sunlight bleeds through the stained glass, but Skyhold's War Room is still cold and drafty in the morn. He should be accustomed to it by now, he supposes, after months of daily meetings, hunting flying reports and replacing knocked-over pieces, but still pulls his coat closer every now and again, looks for a sunnier spot to stand in when the fur and leather are not enough to keep him warm. Cullen stands alone for what seems like an eternity, but it is the peaceful kind. Despite the cold, the room's setting makes him feel at ease; maps and plans, war and strategy, paper and quill, those were things he could grasp, those were things he could do. Tea parties with dignitaries, fake smiles to passing nobles, lengthy negotiations made up of words left unsaid, those he never dared to try, not exactly a people person. He was once a Templar, after all. There is no glory to be had by doing tedious paperwork, no adventures to speak of when one patrols the halls of a Circle, only duty, strict schedules and a life of sacrifices that brings no recognition. He tells himself he prefers it as such, aware of his role in the grand scheme, invested in doing what is best for the cause, structuring and guarding while another takes the lead. The Inquisitor has what he doesn’t – presence, noble status and a charming smile that has made more than one Orlesian woman go weak at the knees. Josephine often argues it takes charisma to lead an army, and Cullen was not as inept as he made himself to be. To him, her point was moot; he led his soldiers not because he is talented, but because he was just that, a  _soldier_  like any other.

The ambassador walks in as he rearranges pieces and hums absentmindedly, her expression one of surprise and the sketch of a smile on her lips. It is gone in the blink of an eye, but it is enough to have him blushing. She says nothing, but it is written on her face how much she wants to comment on his happiness – an usual sight, it seems. Cullen had never given the scuttlebutt much thought; his position as Commander would please some, and rub others the wrong way, of this he was sure, and there would be no time to dwell on self-doubt, take pride in compliments or scold himself over critiques unless they were his own. From the start he never minded it, but realizes perhaps he should. It feels like this is the first time in months, maybe years, he has allowed himself any happiness, allowed himself to show others the kindness he knew they deserved.

Cullen straightens his back and shuts his mouth, nods and greets her like any other day, ashamed of the joy he feels, aware this is a habit he must get rid of. Not many people felt contentment in the Circle – smiles raised questions, and questions caused trouble. As a child, his mother used to sing to him, taught him a song would always ward off his fears and bring him peace. But his voice had failed him, breaking as he sang, void of any emotion other than fear, until he could sing no longer and took to screaming instead. After Kinloch, it was no good for singing, only wailing, shouting, scolding. He did not notice it then – there was no occasion for that in Kirkwall, so much death and despair he barely had enough time to pray. But the Inquisition had given him a purpose, had given him a new life. The Herald had brought light when his hope had run out, and he found it in himself to sing that night, when Trevelyan had dragged himself into camp half-dead, when other voices had joined his and drowned his loneliness, when once more a song warmed his heart.

He remembers the thankless nights in the library, standing in the same place for hours at a time, in full plate and after patrolling the halls all day, when the silence was sickening and he filled it with a song. Never once did he notice her presence, and Cullen knows the words would have been stuck in his throat if he had. It surprises – and flatters – him to discover she found comfort in his (likely off-tune) chanting. It came naturally then and once again these past few days, to the point where often he would find himself being stared at by a passerby, sometimes a soldier. His runner had caught him singing  _Sera was never_ the day before.

Trevelyan’s smile is bright and full of teeth when he enters the War Room, pushing the doors open with more enthusiasm than was called for at this time of the day. Leliana watches him closely from the other side of the War Table, and only then does he notice her presence. She says nothing, because there is no need for that: she  _knows_  the reason for his daydreaming and, judging by her frown, disapproves of it. It is not Leliana’s staring that bothers him, however, but Morrigan’s. Ever since her arrival, the two spoke little, nothing more than exchanged pleasantries and brief discussions during meetings, yet the mage seems to find him quite interesting: many a time he had caught her looking, sometimes  _glaring_ , and today was no exception.

Cullen opens his mouth to begin when the silence becomes overwhelming. They must look quite the sight, he realizes. An uncomfortable commander, a distracted ambassador, a gloomy spymaster. A seemingly malicious apostate and, contrary to them all, a grinning Inquisitor. Trevelyan raises a hand, clears his throat to get their attention. A thick envelope is almost being crushed in his hand, the seal broken and unrecognizable from where Cullen is standing.

“I would like to speak to you regarding our last expedition,” he has regained some manner of composure, tone of voice controlled, hands held behind his back. “My reports mentioned, among other things: elven runes and artifacts, Venatori tomes, dwarven ruins,” Trevelyan turns towards their Arcane advisor, his typical diplomatic smile adorning his face. “My writings, as well as any findings, are at your disposal, Lady Morrigan, if you would like to take a look at them. Solas is also providing us with information he finds useful.”

Trevelyan continues by detailing his experience, going as far as describing how much sand he had found and  _where,_  at the end of each day. He praises Cullen for choosing Rylen as his second-in-command, mentions the odd little tattoo on the Templar’s face, and things go downhill from there. He talks about a Chantry sister wandering the desert in the middle of the night, reciting parts of the Chant whenever a question was directed at her. But that was not the strange part, he emphasizes. Chanters were also present in Ostwick, he has seen many of them, just not ones that could move  _that fast_. It seemed everywhere they turned, there she was – after a while, even Cole seemed frightened. Oh, and they  _would not believe_  the amount of Quillback feathers they had found – considering Leliana’s love for her birds, was that a rude thing to say? Vivienne had offered to take him to her seamstress in Val Royeaux; if worn by the adored Inquisitor, black leather coats adorned with feather pauldrons could just become the next Orlesian fashion trend. Varric says the sand, the heat and the ungodly amount of fireballs had done wonders to inspire him.

“And you should buy his next book,” he beams, but the smile fades as he continues, “I am legally bound to say that at every opportunity, after losing my smallclothes – and dignity, might I add – during a particularly heated game of Wicked Grace. Cassandra was most pleased.” Josephine’s graceful snickering does little to ease the growing tension. “I did not, however, invite you here to listen to my anecdotes. I failed to mention something very important in my reports, though I suspect Leliana was the first to know – and you, Cullen? So I am told.”

He feels the tips of his fingers grow cold as Trevelyan’s voice lowers back to normal, and the envelope is unceremoniously dropped on the table. Cullen can see it now, the royal blue wax, a pair of wings discernible in what is left of the seal. A griffon. Grey Wardens.

“Several Grey Warden artifacts were found in that desert. Some were buried under piles of rubble, while others had been looted by Venatori. Most were old and a few were lost. Maps, scrolls, diagrams. The last one showed many Deep Roads entrances and mentioned the Calling – the real one. It was still there when we arrived, but it was... Guarded,” his tone is grave now, his last word cautious. “There was a... Conflict, you see. The Inquisition would find the information useful, but the Wardens believed themselves the rightful owners of such artifacts. I was told I would – how did she phrase it? -,  _suck on a fireball_  if I insisted on taking the documents with me. Quite the impasse.”

Cassandra was the first one to recognize her. Fereldan tales regarding the Blight told of a wandering mage, who had ditched robes in favor of armor, laid down her magical staff and taken a sword and shield instead. A heroine, not Fereldan by birth but raised in the land of  _dog lords_ , formerly imprisoned in the Circle but set free when the Darkspawn came. A woman who had sacrificed much to save the people, who had lost friends, brokered deals, amassed an army. Scarred,  _startled_  when they first spoke to her, eyes set on Trevelyan like he was prey, so intimidating despite being at least a head shorter than him. She had heard of the Inquisition, but had kept her distance on purpose – this fight was not hers. There were battles to be won, problems to be solved, men under her command, and not enough time left for her in this world. Corypheus’ calling had reached her, as well, though part of her refused to acknowledge its legitimacy.  _A Warden thing_ , were her words, something to do with the Fifth Blight.

Varric was the first one to suggest they discuss a possible partnership over drinks; she had a quest to complete, one that would take far too long if undertaken all by her lonesome, and the Inquisition had resources, connections. It would not hurt to have a hero as a guest in Skyhold, where she would be able to broaden her search, either by hitting the books or having scouts out in the field looking for clues. Besides, Leliana would certainly be ecstatic to see her again. The mention of the Spymaster’s name helped make up her mind, it seemed.

The terms of the deal had been detailed in her letters – one for each advisor. Cullen took longer than needed to snatch his out of Trevelyan’s hands, but it was difficult to concentrate when his head was spinning and his palms sweating.

“Despite our initial disagreement, things flowed quite well, I am happy to say. I apologize for the secrecy - the Warden-Commander and I agreed it would be better to keep this quiet.”

No parties, that was the first rule. Josephine did not hide her disappointment: not even a small  _soiree_ with Orlesian nobility? She had been dreaming of this moment for a while, and the dream involved a grand ball, frilly dresses, tiny cakes and people from all over. Perhaps the Hero could be convinced, after her arrival? Josephine and Trevelyan started discussing the possibility, though Leliana assured them the Warden-Commander was incredibly  _Fereldan_ , boring and not at all interested in social gatherings; Cullen is lost after the first minute.

He can picture it, the bright campfire lighting up the night, Cassandra sitting cross-legged, either polishing her equipment or pretending to read, but secretly eavesdropping on Varric, who is in the middle of a heated discussion with the Grey Warden mage. A busy Trevelyan prepares the evening meal, a tradition he likely will never see broken, while Cole helps, mundane tasks a part of his attempt at becoming more human. He cannot imagine her face, nor picture what her hair would look like after so many years. Her skin used to be velvet-smooth, paler than it should be from the lack of sunlight, not a scar or bruise, yet he knows the years of adventuring have changed her in more ways than one. He cannot see her in his mind’s eye, but can imagine what it is she and the dwarf talk about: a book, a tale inspired by her life, her wanderings. Varric writing down her musings, asking all the inappropriate questions, about her early life, about the Circle, the Blight, Ferelden, her worst moments, her favorite memories,  _love affairs_. Varric gathering her thoughts regarding the journey to Skyhold, telling her interesting tidbits and lying through his teeth to make it seem much fancier than it was. Varric eventually breaching the subject he (and Cassandra, and Trevelyan) had danced around all night,  _Cullen_.

How much of what Varric had written was true? What if there were no tears, no joy, what if she did not want to see him? How long did he have until her arrival? He is certain the Inquisitor has mentioned it, but can barely keep up with their conversation at this point. He would have to be prepared, apology rehearsed, ready for a long conversation – would it be polite to invite her to walk the battlements with him? Perhaps a game in the gardens, or even better, tea? Just the two of them, enjoying the silence, discussing their pasts and putting it behind them. That sounded like a date. What if she believed it to be one? He certainly would  _never_  be ready for  _that_.

Cullen follows when the other advisors exit the room one by one, still talking about the preparations for the Hero’s arrival. He hopes he had not looked  _too_  pathetic the last few minutes, but knows better. The question now was whether his expression screamed  _alarmed general_  or  _lovesick boy_. Leliana would not let him live this down either way, in the end.

His office seemed so far away now, when he needed the comfort of the stone walls, the smell of ink and parchment. He made for the entrance in large, determined steps, his letter held tight between trembling fingers. The excitement and uncertainty of it all made his stomach twist and turn, a dull ache reach his temples. A hand touched his shoulder just as his had brushed against the wooden door, and he expected to see Leliana’s perfectly manicured eyebrows and knowing smile, but had found Morrigan instead.

“I know who you are,” her tone made it sound like an accusation, like he was a dangerous criminal. Of course she knew who he was – the two had spoken at Halamshiral, and a few times around Skyhold, she was the Arcane Advisor and he the Commander of Forces, a former- “Templar,” she spat the word as if it were poisonous. “I remember the way she talked about you, about Kinloch. I remember the way she cried because of your actions, your words,” the fluttering in his stomach was gone, replaced by a sickness that forced him down, his throat dry, eyes wide. “I will not allow you to hurt my sister in any way,  _ever again_.” Morrigan’s hands were balled into fists, black nails digging into her palms, a shade of red creeping up her neck all the way to her cheeks, though her face was serene, composed as always. There was no need for further threatening - her eyes told him all he needed to know about the ways  _she_  would hurt  _him_  if the worst ever came to pass. Cullen was sure he had never seen so much rage in another person’s eyes.

“I would never-”  _hurt her_ , he meant to say, but the words never came. He feels the tears welling up in his eyes, knows she can see it, yet refuses to cry. Not here. Not in front of her.

Cullen pushes past Morrigan, stomps through Josephine’s office so quickly he does not have enough time to notice if the ambassador is there. He ignores the curious stares, ignores it when Varric tries to grab his hand. His heartbeat is all he can hear as he crosses the stone bridge, and his thoughts are a blur until he hears the door clicking behind him, fingers taking too long to turn the key. He wanted to say it, wanted to say it out loud, with so much conviction she would know his words were true. He had always believed it in his heart, guilt and surprise taking over when his lips wouldn’t say it. Because it was a  _lie_. The naive boy who would never harm another had died in his magical cage, and whatever had crawled out of it knew nothing of love. It was rage that moved him through Kirkwall’s streets, rage that saw him lash out and fight and fear. Hatred so pure, so raw, he could not see mages as anything other than pawns, bloodbaths waiting to happen. He could not tell Morrigan he would never hurt her, because he would have. For what seemed like the longest time, he  _wanted_  to.

He could not ignore it, not anymore. Could not ignore his past, could no longer relish in the knowledge of her love when he did nothing to deserve it; he had stained it, all of it, through his words and actions, turning the man she loved into a monster she would be right to fear. The beast he had let roam free for so long, seething, shackled, but not  _dead_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me so long I can’t even believe it’s finished. And I don’t really know how to feel about it. It was supposed to either be shorter than the second or go knee deep into angst territory, but well, this happened. I’m hoping the hurting Cullen part will intensify in the next one. All Bioware’s fault. If they’d done it right in canon I wouldn’t have to do this with my own two sinning hands.  
> As a warning, of sorts: like I said, I'm hoping things will get angstier. If my ideas cooperate, it might even get a little risqué, though not downright smutty. We'll see.  
> I hope it was worth the wait, or at the very least not entirely disappointing. Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this ended up pretty heavy. **Mentions death, torture, addiction, Tranquility**. If it triggers you, please, do not read it.

Control and duty had always been keywords in his life. Though his infancy and early teenage years had been lax, loving parents and annoying siblings, Cullen had always been regarded as the sober second son, a contrast to the first daughter’s cheerful, sometimes manipulative glibness. A quiet boy with a sweet tooth and sweeter smile, who enjoyed braiding his sister’s hair and helping mother set the table for dinner. He was good at the first, his long fingers clumsy in the beginning, mouth slightly ajar as he busied himself with the task at hand. His apparent single mindedness had made him the butt of many jokes, but had also allowed him to ignore most of Mia’s amused commentary. She was the first one to suggest, when the two were still young, that one day he would tend to the hair of the woman he would come to call wife, and he would place pretty flowers in her hair like the lovesick fool he was. Their fights earned them both a fair amount of reprimands from their parents, sometimes a few scratches, and it was out of pride, petty sibling rivalry, that he refused to admit that was a fantasy he had come to nurture.

During his time at the Tower he came to accept the fact he would never call her wife, though he often fantasized about vows exchanged in secret, somewhere in the gardens under the moonlight. But even then, none of his dreams had come true – he never had the opportunity to touch her, even as a friend, of holding her hand or embracing her. The yearning for those perfect moments vanished in his adult years, not because he had forgotten how to weave the strands, but because there was no longer a woman, and there had never been a man, he wished to keep close.

Control, because he had left the days of mischief and laughter behind at the age of thirteen, when a visiting Knight-Captain passed through the backyard of the village’s Chantry and saw a scrawny lad hacking away at a training dummy, jaw set and eyes focused, dripping sweat like he had been at it for hours. His sword was made of wood and the shield looked heavier than a boy his age could carry, but he did not seem to mind it, oblivious to the world around him. Cullen remembers that day clearly: it had been around two months since the local Templars had decided to amuse him with basic techniques, and he had trained every day since, sometimes alone, sometimes under a recruit’s supervision. He remembers politely asking the man to  _bugger off,_  unaware of who and what he was, and how he had flushed to the tips of his ears, sure he had thrown his only opportunity out of the window by being rude. But he had not, and the older man had commended his spirit, his dedication, lips contorting in a smile of yellow teeth, his voice hoarse as he promised to speak to Cullen’s parents about his training. He was told to go home and await further instructions, and the solemnity of it all had made his heart swell. The Templar taught him how to salute, corrected his posture, and off he went. For the remainder of the day he could not stand still; at any moment now, the man would come, knock on their door, and his parents would be so happy for him, so proud, for their son was handpicked to become a champion of the people, a hero.

His first encounter with the Knight-Captain had formed an image that etched itself in his mind, one he would revisit in the years to come. It was different each time, worse each time, until it became sickening to remember. The boy saw a brave man in shining armor; the Templar blade carved into the metal called to him, made him want to feel it against his fingertips. He wanted to be like him, sword and shield, confident stance, righteousness. The man wearing that armor, living on strange lands, saw a brother, saw someone who had given him the chance to follow this path. He held his head high, honor, pride and purpose mixed together for the good of others. It was the image he conjured in his darkest times, to remind himself of hows and whys, to tell apart friend and foe. The general plunged into the abyss saw a monster, a zealot whose blade hungered for blood; made note of his pale complexion, the bloodshot eyes and dark circles, and how his cheeks seemed hollow, but glowed pink. He would never forget the wolfish grin.

He lost whatever strength he had left when the wave of nausea hit him, his body bumping against the ladder as he tried to grab it for support. He stumbled forward until his hips collided with the desk, knocked over the pile of books sitting in the corner. The shelves became his next destination as he tried to reach his chair but never made it, instead falling to his knees, bringing more volumes down as he fell. The memory came unbidden, and so did the thirst that threatened to consume him. He saw it behind his eyelids, the face he had considered gentle and caring, that had given him hope and a future. Believed that he now saw its true colors, had unveiled its monstrosity. Though it came as no surprise, he could not fight the horror that overtook him when he realized the nightmarish figure plaguing his thoughts was his own reflection.

Duty, because even if Kirkwall seemed doomed, even when he saw the pleading eyes of mages and heard their cries and watched them bleed, he would walk the path and do as he was told, like he always had. Control, because even then it hurt him to think about it all, think about the consequences when his hand gripped the sword or pulled the quill. Thinking made him question, and questions would see him destitute, stripped of rank, with no profession or friends to speak of. No brotherhood, no sacred service and, more importantly, without that which kept his demons at bay. Questioning was useless, questioning was unnecessary, he convinced himself, every time Meredith grabbed him by the shoulders with just a little too much force, every time she smiled at him almost affectionately, every time she told him to trust her, her arguments impeccable, her logic clear.

Trust was what he gave her from the start, since the first time she addressed him when he arrived in the city of chains. Trust was the only good thing he could give, pain and suffering still fresh in his mind, but it seemed  _fear_  was also something she was willing to take. After Kinloch, after losing so much, Meredith, the Templars, their cause – it was all he had left, and he had let it all swallow him without a second thought.

Kirkwall always felt too different. There were no mountains or plains or grass or dogs, no calm waters and breathtaking sights. Even the sun did not feel as warm. There was stone everywhere, stone and people, he supposes, and sometimes it all felt like a cage. After a while he became certain something was  _off_ , like the city was rotten to the core, oblivious to the good intentions of its people (looking back, he does not know if he had any of those).

It is around this time he turns to lyrium; it helped with the bad dreams, helped fog his thoughts so he could not remember, and soon he found himself taking more of it, until his fingers were numb and his mind quiet. The years pass by and he keeps his head down, does what he is told, believes what he is told. He hates mages, as Meredith hates mages, as all people should. In some moments of loneliness or absolute sobriety (he cannot tell which), he tries to remember why. It all comes back then – pain, flesh, blood, he remembers it all, and the rage that came after, the tears he could not stop.

In those moments, it was so easy to label them all the same, all abominations, all monsters. Even the cooing baby in its crib, the elven child playing with a piece of charcoal and paper. He never understood why they were not allowed toys. Toys were for  _children_ , some of his brothers had said. Monsters, he told himself, and Greagoir told him, and the people at Greenfell told him, and so did Meredith.

He still dreams of Uldred’s depravities; Uldred, the name seems branded into his thoughts, not  _mages_ , but he cannot bring himself to remember why that is. Until the name slips, barely a whisper in the crowded hall, an unlucky recruit wearing a smug smile as he mocks the Knight-Captain.  _I heard Cullen fell in love with a mage in Ferelden_ , and that is all it takes to get them talking like they are not men doing the Maker’s work, but elderly ladies with too much time on their hands. He cannot move for a long time, listening as one man murmured to another. His food had long since gone cold, his insides twisting and turning as he stares down at the plate and tries to concentrate on anything but the words he hears. _Yes, she became a Warden, the Hero of Ferelden. That explains why he stares at the girls so much._ He hears their laughter, and though he wants to, he is too weak to rebuke, too weak to put the insolent boys back in their place, too weak to deny it all, because it is true, all of it. He had loved her and that was his shame, because he had broken the first rule, the most important rule.

He somehow ends up in his own quarters, on his knees, pouring the contents of his stomach into a wooden bucket until there is nothing left; still he heaved, metal digging into his skin but he feels too pathetic to care. Samson watches but says nothing. He is about to open his mouth to complain, dare him to jest like so many others have, but what the other man shows him is something akin to kindness: he holds Cullen by the shoulders until he is done, helps him up and out of the heavy armor, never breathing a word about what he has seen or heard.

Meredith calls him to her office the day after, assures him the perpetrators will be dealt with accordingly – and it mattered not he had told her to forget about it. The recruits are tattled on and beaten, in front of all others, until they are half dead. He is invited over to watch, assigned a special spot so he will not miss a thing. He does not. He notices how the two men never walk properly again, how they recoiled during training when a sword was raised. Notices when they are sent on a mission and never come back, and that Meredith does not seem to care two of her men are dead. She denies ever assigning Templars to hurt another, denies the rumor she had refused to send help for their mission. He believes her, convinces himself the display of brutality is an act of kindness, a symbol of brotherhood – fellow Templars had taken upon themselves to defend his honor.

The first mage to mention the Hero’s name never strings it together with his, but is given the brand nonetheless. He is given the order to personally inspect the mage’s quarters, finds a black tome hidden beneath the mattress. It is written in a language he doesn’t understand, Tevene, Knight-Commander Meredith tells him, and the blood stained pages are enough evidence to consider the man guilty. The poor soul is assigned as his assistant and follows him around for months, haunting him like a shadow, following his every order, doing his bidding without hesitation. When it becomes too much to bear and he resorts to crying into his pillow until he is too tired to stay awake, he tells Meredith the Tranquil’s presence bothers him, and his talents could be of use elsewhere. The beheading happens the same day.

It is harder to  _do_  instead of  _question_  after that, harder to hear their wails and feel nothing, harder to hate the apostate living in the slums of Darktown. He hears about Anders from the townsfolk, rumored to be Fereldan like himself, and they talk about him as one would speak of a hero. Wounds are healed and lives are saved in his clinic, they say, without a single coin ever leaving their pockets. Part of him is disgusted by the thought –  _he_  should be the one protecting, he should be the one the people see as a good man. Yet, when he thinks of how many lives he has saved, he cannot count many.

Cullen gathers whatever energy he has left to rise to his feet. He cannot see much through the tears, or perhaps it is the lyrium that blinds him so. His hands fumble with the lock on his desk’s drawer, but the leather gloves make him feel like he grasps at nothing, and Cullen comes close to destroying them as he takes them off. He can almost hear it, being so close. He takes out the last bottle, the one he kept close for when his mind began spiraling out of control. The glass feels warm, its shape comfortable, familiar, as does the sinking feeling in his stomach, the burn in his throat. He wants it gone, the bottle and the thirst, tells himself he came too far to fail now, but the pain is almost too much to bear.

Lyrium will help him forget; about Kinloch, about Kirkwall, about the things he has seen, about the things he has done. There will be no further distractions, a clear mind, blissful nights with no bad dreams. Lyrium will help him forget about her, just another name, just another mage. But he doesn’t want to forget. She had disappeared once, taken his happiness along when she left the Tower. And then again, as he drank until his eyelids felt heavy. He wants to remember, he wants to wake up every day knowing who she is, what she felt, how much she cared about him. He wants to remember how much he cared about her, even if time and distance had strained the two of them. He wants to remember Kirkwall, and never make the same mistakes again.

He throws the vial against the nearest wall before he can think it through, before his courage is gone. He shakes his head and holds tight against the wooden desk to keep himself from falling, curses him foolishness right after for making such a mistake. He can hear the song, so loud there is no space for anything else, the blue stains on the stone wall looking so mesmerizing.

Kirkwall fell, people were killed, and none of it had been enough to force him into action until it was too late. Raleigh being stripped of his rank and doomed to a life in the gutter for helping a mage had not been enough. Opening his eyes to the corruption in the Gallows had not being enough. The lyrium kept the nightmares at bay, helped with the shaking. He needed it, and the Chantry gave it to those who behaved, who did what they were told. He feared the cravings, the burning in his veins, feared one day he would lose his senses, hurt himself and others. He could not leave. Weak. Despicable. He had joined the Templars to protect. He had stayed with the Templars so what he went through would never happen again. He had left the Templars because they lost their way, and so did he.

Maker, what had he become? For the better part of ten years, he was the monster mages told stories about. He knew of Templars who murdered, raped, tortured – but it felt like he was the worst of them all. He was  _complacent._  Afraid to do what was right. So set in his ways, so afraid of life, of people, he had settled for inertia. How could someone like the Hero of Ferelden have loved a man like him? How could she still look forward to seeing him again? She would be, she should be, ashamed of what he had become. His fantasies are gone and he knows he will never be able to face her, not after his words at Kinloch, not after Kirkwall. He has never hated himself more, has never hated lyrium more. Cullen cannot be sure he is what the Inquisition needs, cannot be sure anything in him is still salvageable.

His head feels heavy, but he cannot close his eyes. It becomes too much to endure when he does. He can imagine it: the Hero of Ferelden, candid smile, open heart, hoping to see a changed man – she knows the one she once loved had been dead for ten years. But she does not know this one is nothing like the first; she does not know he is ruthless and cruel, blind and rigid. She does not know he had preferred apathy and fear, does not know he still does. He cannot trust himself, cannot be sure he won’t strike her down because of her apostasy, the rumors regarding her use of blood magic, her involvement with the Wardens and their Venatori rituals. She does not know it yet, but she has every reason to evade him, and he will see to it that she does. Varric’s words were true, and he knows there is little time for him to come up with a reason to leave Skyhold. Perhaps it would be best – for her, for him, for the Inquisition – if he vanished and never returned.

“ _Trapped, stuck, I’m stuck_ , head spinning, too much to bear, gone,  _I want it gone_ , no more fear and no more games,” the boy’s voice echoes through his office, pained, just loud enough for him to hear. “Maybe I won’t have to say it, let it end, take over, pass out and never wake again. Trapped, helpless, alone, frightened, they wear pretty faces to make it all true,” he wants to yell, wants to make it stop, get the damned spirit out of his mind, but what comes out is a sob, tears, a disgruntled cry, and he is on his knees again. He remembers it, sees it, his friends, the ones he had watched die, the ones he had heard scream, who had begged for mercy and were granted none. He sees himself, standing alone amidst blood, magic, shredded flesh, trapped inside his magical cage, torn, broken. “Harrowing, is the word that comes to mind, but she was afraid you wouldn’t survive yours. Your pain touches hers, she wants the hurt gone, wants to help, words or touches or distance,” it takes him too long to register Cole’s speech, longer still to comprehend it. “She wants to be your friend, but you have to  _see,_ ” Cullen nods his head, or tries to, anything to make the boy go away, the pain he feels is so strong he cannot tell where it comes from anymore.

A gentle hand brushes his hair back as the world fades into obscurity, the sweet perfume not at all familiar, but comforting all the same. He sees a flash of blond hair, hears determined footsteps leaving his office as Leliana tells him he would be alright, but he cannot be sure she is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said in the first chapter, I had a lot of headcanons. I ship Cullen x Mage Warden real hard, but I can't see anything happening between them unless Cullen opens his eyes. I love him as a character but his dev in Inquisition was... Flat, to say the least. I'm not sure I can fully portray what I want, but I can certainly try, yes? I just needed to hurt him a... bit, before the good parts.
> 
> If you're sticking with me, thank you so much! I foresee less angst from here on out. I'd love to hear what you think so far! This is my first time writing Cole, I hope it doesn't sound out of character.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! <3


	5. Chapter 5

It had taken a month for Knight-Commander Greagoir to officially release him from duty and send him away after Uldred's failed uprising. A month until he was plucked from Kinloch and sent to the chantry at Greenfell, the peaceful little village with few people and fewer Templars, birds chirping in the morning and the smell of grass and flowers instead of soggy earth and moss. Where he was sent so he could “recover”, where he would stay until he was “fit for duty” once more. Though Greagoir never said the words to his face, it seemed to him as if he meant Cullen was no longer useful, a broken thing beyond repair. It all seemed ridiculous, upsetting to him at the time – in the weeks that followed Uldred’s so called rebellion, he had shown nothing but competence, dedication, a burning desire to keep all of Ferelden safe. Not a day went by when he would not file a report, perfectly worded, neatly placed on the Knight-Commander’s desk, regarding his suspicions about one mage or another, forbidden books and items he had found.

He remembers waking up earlier than ever during that time, before dawn had come. Remembers polishing his sword and armor until it shone under the light of the fires, gulping down his meals so he could spend more time patrolling the halls. He kept a respectful distance from all mages, but could not keep himself from watching their every move, helmet in place so they would not catch him staring. A few apprentices eyed him suspiciously, or so it seemed, fidgeting for no reason and looking over their shoulders to make sure he was still there. He had pointed towards those who had shown signs of possession, pleaded with Greagoir, and he had promised to look into it, only to turn his back and forget about it all. It had never crossed his mind how bleak those times were, how unbearably dull and painful it felt to make it through another day.

Blind, scared Cullen never noticed, never cared about the fact none of his predictions had come true. But he noticed how his fingers trembled when he gripped the quill, and it was at this time he had developed the habit of holding on to the pommel of his sword, the solid metal under his fingertips giving him some sense of stability, keeping him grounded. There was no lyrium back then, at least not as much as he had come to take in Kirkwall, a draught a week or maybe two, as much as any other Templar would take. No sweet poison to lull him to sleep, and he would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, his nightmares forgotten but the fear still present. Every night he would wake up to another recruit’s terrified expression, candle wax coating burned fingers, sword glistening and oftentimes pointed at him, until the day came when he no longer had company. His quarters started to look bigger, terrifying, the bed casting odd shadows, too many corners where abominations could hide. He had done away with everything that seemed out of place or of no use, bookcase, dressers, armor stands. After the first week, his room was as bare as it could be. The stones on the walls became his friends, and he knew every one of them in great detail, every scratch and every stain. Nothing ever changed – not the position of the furniture, not the place he kept his clothes, not the rack where he kept his weapon. Even then, some nights he would stay awake, hunched over himself, sword in one hand, Chant of Light in the other, reciting prayers and keeping a lonely vigil until the sun rose.

He remembers the day a much younger, frightened recruit had come to tell him Greagoir wanted to see him; remembers hurrying, rubbing away invisible dirt on his breastplate, brushing back his hair so he would look presentable, hoping to hear one of his leads had been investigated and a maleficar rooted out. Instead he found a stoic Knight-Commander sitting behind his desk, not sparing him a glance as he signed paper after paper. He was handed a sealed letter and told he would be leaving Kinloch Hold within the week, headed towards some small town, where there were no blood mages to torment him. Where he could dedicate more time to religious contemplation and his nights would be serene. The tone in the older man’s voice had angered him far more than the notice had; he spoke as one does to a rebellious child, and then as one would to a beggar, an undertone of pity in his voice that Cullen could not ignore. He had lashed out, unsheathed his sword, yelled and thrashed about, but the Knight-Commander never moved a muscle. He was gone before the week was through.

Greenfell was bright, quiet, and peaceful enough to make him feel worse instead of better. The Chantry sisters told him, time and again, that it was safe to be there, it was safe to let go, embrace the silence, participate in sermons, safe to answer questions from the villagers and enjoy his time off amidst the people. They never told him to forget, and he never did, never told him to forgive, and he hadn’t done that, either. He soon reached the conclusion that Greenfell was a joke, with its broken Templars and apathetic sisters. Not a single soul seemed to care about the fact that abominations could appear at any time, come from within the people they trusted to be good folk. It never crossed their minds there might be snakes in their midst. At times like those he felt caged, his legs telling him to run but his mind saying there was nowhere to go, and he was forced to watch his brothers fade away, mind and body, lethargic movements and easy smiles.

It had taken him yet another month to leave Greenfell and reach Kirkwall, confidence written all over his expression but fear under the mask. The journey was not at all a pleasant one: the ship was packed with all kinds of people, farmers who had lost it all, families who had become diminutive after the Blight, crying children and whiny old women. The noise was a constant that did not let him sleep, the bobbing made him feel sick every morning, and at some point he had taken to standing anywhere he wouldn’t be bothered, until his knees were weak and he was too tired to stay awake. He had seen apostates, he was sure of it, and the thought of abominations taking over the ship had him sketching elaborate plans in his mind.

Another month had gone by until he had fully memorized the streets and alleys of the city, the byways of the Gallows, until he felt confident patrolling and standing guard. For over thirty days he had stayed within the walls of the Circle, studying maps and asking for directions, and stepping outside for the first time almost felt like an adventure. The people were different this time, and not in a pleasant way. Some did not care, too absorbed in their own schemes and miserable daily lives; some tried to win his trust, bribes and offers, for Kirkwall was made of power plays; there were worse ones, the ones who ignored him, who judged him, and it was hard to pretend the stares did not bother him. Such things he never grew accustomed to, not then and not now. But others had come easier, and it had taken him much less than a month to get comfortable with the rules set by his new Knight-Commander, her iron grip setting the pace of his daily life. Meredith knew, Meredith cared, and perhaps more importantly, Meredith wasn’t afraid.

The first month after the Chantry explosion was gone in the blink of an eye. Matters needing his attention, Templars injured, Templars who had deserted the Order, people dying unattended. At times it felt as if he had been the one to uphold a cracked structure, doomed to ruin, his actions nothing short of foolish obstinacy. He had always thought himself ready for a crisis, always thought nothing would make him falter after Kinloch, but Kirkwall had proved itself to be a beast far stronger than he could defeat. Guilt had washed over as soon as the panic had dwindled, every piece of rubble, every missing mage a reminder that the Templars had failed, that  _ he  _ had failed.

Traveling across Ferelden after staying away for so long had been an adventure he hadn’t considered himself ready for. Walking down beaten paths of dirt and stone, sword resting on his hip and armor stored in his bag, people barely sparing him a glance as he strode from town to town, Denerim, Redcliffe, South Reach. He thinks of visiting Kinloch but reconsiders, marches straight to Haven, avoids the dangers of the road and the memories trying to pull him in. Cassandra welcomes him though not with open arms; her friendliness is cold, not unlike his own, politeness and formality befitting her rank. He gets to work on that same day, tiredness forgotten, confidence that he was up to whatever challenge his new position might throw at him.

Whenever he rested his head against the uncomfortable pillow in his spartan accommodations in Haven, the word that would come to mind was  _ overwhelming _ . His first day at camp after the failed Conclave had him working the hardest, morale high despite his insecurities, head darting to take it all in, an environment so different from the one he had always known. There were soldiers, yes, but also commoners, farmers and merchants and smiths, children squeezing between tents and jumping over stone fences. Nobles who refused to step outside into the cold and cooped up inside the Chantry instead, nobles who felt like they were allowed to bark orders and make demands, nobles who seemed bent on interfering with his work. An army to command, movements to plan, places to scout and demons to kill. A giant hole in the sky, nightmares to keep him awake at night, and when he believes their alliance will tilt the balance in their favor, an army much greater than theirs appears at their doorstep; suddenly there are people running in panic, some wounded, many dead, no escape in sight. A Herald to protect, a hero he had put in danger, frustration taking over when he had found himself cornered. He cannot sleep for days after Haven is destroyed, blaming and scrutinizing, heated, hushed arguments with the Seeker of Truth while others rest. His words cut deep, tone sharp, frown borne out of desperation rather than anger, and he swears, to the Maker and himself as he prays, that should he be given another chance, he will never make such a foolish mistake again.

He can hardly believe his eyes when Cassandra brings Trevelyan on her back, face hiding in the crook of her neck, arms hanging, lifeless, blood painting the snow red. The healers work quickly, salves and potions and hot water, and the taste on his tongue is bittersweet. He is alive, Cassandra tells him, more than simple concern in her voice. The Herald is alive, the news spreads quickly, but whenever he sees Vivienne discarding bloodied bandages, Dorian kneeling beside the cot as he checks Trevelyan’s temperature, his mind screams, careless, reckless. Despite the cold, despite their losses, the camp never sleeps. A stab of guilt sends him reeling every time a healer passes by, every time soldiers bring in another stray, another survivor. The people he had struggled for so many years to keep locked away, the people he once believed had to be kept from harm and then kept from causing harm, those were the ones who worked the hardest on such trying days, dark bags under their eyes from exhaustion, fingertips losing all color. Blood on their hands, as they stitched and healed and saved. Blood on  _ his _ hands, because he could not save them all.

If he had thought Haven was bad, Skyhold is much, much worse. They numbers in their journey; frostbite takes some, malnourishment takes others, and as the numbers dwindle, so does their faith. He is starting to question how much longer the Inquisition will last when Skyhold comes into view, gasps of relief and whispers heard all around. The damaged fortress seems to become a place worthy of a pilgrimage, and though that may please Josephine, who had been working hard to make sure the world knew about the  _ Inquisitor _ , his own never came to an end. Between finding a place for everything, checking in with refugees, issuing orders and fixing things with his own hands when he could, there was no time for anything else. It seemed like he had awakened one day and their headquarters had become that much closer to its former glory, no more broken windows and piled rubble, proper furniture arranged, windows repaired. His work had doubled and so had his responsibilities, and he would often find it impossible to split his time between signing paperwork and seeing to it that his new recruits were taken care of. Then came the meetings, oh Maker, the meetings, the tea with hateful dignitaries to discuss alliances, plots of land the Inquisition would borrow, where its soldiers would be stationed and when. He did not mind spending hours studying the map on the War Table, did not mind going over the reports of every member of the Inquisition’s inner circle, but if he had a choice, he would never meet with chatty Orlesian lords ever again.

He had never been poor with time, but at some point down the road, thirty days started to fly by too fast. A month and then another, years had passed and he had not noticed, his life never placid, so much more to be done wherever he looked. He had accepted, long ago, that the Maker had seen to it that he would never know true serenity, long stretches of boring hours, lazy moments under the warming sunlight. The life of a soldier was all he had ever known, and it suited him fine; it was hard to picture anything else. And yet, when he opened his eyes the morning after he had collapsed in his office, even a day had started to seem like too much time.

His body had not jolted out of a nightmare nor been pulled out of a pleasant dream; he had rolled onto his side and taken far too long to open his eyes, fingers gripping the bedsheets to help him realize this was real, he was safe, memories of blood and torn flesh no more than that,  _ memories _ . These were not his quarters in Kinloch, not the cramped, humid room with stones all around, nor the identical one in the Gallows he had come to hate. The hole in his roof let in the sunlight, there were no walls or heavy doors, no snoring recruits, no fear pooling at the bottom of his stomach. Changes he had gladly accepted, that had lifted burdens he had never noticed until they were gone. He wished that, in time, he would look back and see that he had finally left it all behind, capitalized on the chance he had been given. Cullen had come to cherish second chances.

A hand reached beside his pillow, just a little to the right where it should be, tucked under the fabric so that someone watching from afar would not notice. Fingers press down hard against the mattress when he finds nothing, eyes wide open to search for the missing volume. What he finds is dark hair and an ornate silver breastplate, an engrossed Cassandra turning pages and paying him no mind. The book laid flat against her knees, slender fingers holding the corner of the paper, as the other traced along the lines to keep her flow. She has already gone through three quarters of the book, or so it seems, and he wonders for how long she had stayed at his bedside, for how long he had blacked out after his episode.

“Cassandra,” he greets and she jumps, index finger stuck between the pages as she presses the book closed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“Commander, it’s good to see that you are awake,” Cullen hears the worry in her voice, worry and something else, can’t miss the way her eyebrows arch and lips curl upwards, the tone of her voice a telltale sign of her excitement. He does not mean to stare but cannot help it, wants to ask but reconsiders, this is hardly the time for a book discussion. Cassandra shyly puts the book away and explains herself, hands talking far more than her lips. “Leliana and I thought it best to watch over while you slept,” she begins, “and I was happy to see you are giving the book a chance. How do you like it so far?” Cullen is not sure that is a question he  _ wants _ to answer, but there is no need to: “I could not help reading it again,” soon the book is in her hands again, and she flips quickly through the pages back to where she had been before Cullen interrupted her. “This is my favorite part. The heroine wants to know more about Ser Cuddles and Varric promised-” she cuts herself short, smile turning into a frown before continuing. “I- I will not spoil it for you. I would like to hear your opinion once you have finished it. Dorian and I cannot come to an agreement on certain parts. Can you believe he says the two-” another sigh, and she says they will discuss this in time.

For now, reassurance he is in good health is all she seeks. He tries to breach the topic of a replacement as they walk together towards the kitchen, but Cassandra refuses to hear it. The scenario is oddly familiar, a wooden table somewhere in the corner and hushed whispers of the staff; oftentimes he would find himself separated from the other Templars, away from the noisy hall, taking his meals in silence as he made plans for the day. But Skyhold feels different, smells different, he is no longer the feared Knight-Captain but a respected Commander. The cook treats them as one would treat family, the marcher woman who reminded him so much of his mother is full of concern as she asks him about his health, offers him the tea  _ Messere Dorian _ had prepared for him this morning. It tastes bitter and it’s hard to gulp it down, but his headache is gone like it’d never been there.

Cassandra fails to warn him over breakfast, but Josephine begins preparations for the Warden’s arrival that same day. He enters the Ambassador’s office to find her scribbling furiously, Trevelyan hunched over her desk to spy on what she had been writing. They discuss colors for drapes and rugs, how to furnish the room she would stay in. Trevelyan envisions a ball like no other, nobles and refugees alike invited to feast and celebrate what might be the greatest alliance the Inquisition has forged. Leliana does her best to convince them the Warden is a woman of simple tastes, and if a cot and a dusty room were all they could offer, she would gladly take it.

It is a strange notion, one he had not entertained before - that she is not merely  _ visiting _ , staying for a scant few days until she has replenished her supplies to continue her search. Not unlike Morrigan, Skyhold could become her home for Maker knows how long; the woman he had not seen in ten years, his first love, the friend he never got to know as well as he would like, walking by every morning, talking to him every day. A commander like himself, who had lived through a Blight and led the Fereldan Wardens for a decade, who had seen much and done much. He could imagine her standing beside Morrigan around the War table, imparting wisdom and experience - but what he could not foresee, and perhaps did not  _ want _ to, was how he would come to fit in this.

Morrigan does not spare him a glance all morning, and he is not sure whether he should be thankful or worried. Her words will stay with him for a long time, of that Cullen has no doubt, but she is mysterious, far too difficult to read, and her silence is suffocating. Part of him needs to hear it, the venom she spits, to confirm what he had known all along. He wants to hear her say it, that he is right in his desire to disappear once and for all, right to think he is too far gone to be forgiven - yet when her knuckles rap against the door to his office, almost a week later, Morrigan has other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took forever, but here we are! Not the most interesting of chapters, maybe, but it's paving the way for some stuff I'm planning. Hopefully I'll be able to update regularly from now on, and the wait pays off. Thank you for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of feelings that needed to be let out. So here it is.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
